


We Are Collapsed In the Act of Just Being Here

by PBJellie



Series: South Park Kink Meme Requests [9]
Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, F/F, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recovery, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 21:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PBJellie/pseuds/PBJellie
Summary: Stan sees an old friend. Except they weren't friends.At age 30, Stan is not very excited at the prospect of seeing Tweek again.





	We Are Collapsed In the Act of Just Being Here

**Author's Note:**

> Title for the song taken from the Stars song "What I'm Trying to Say." 
> 
> Written for the South Park Kink Meme for the request "Stan/Tweek. Anything. (I would prefer smth sad as fuck and heartbreaking, but this ship is so rare, that I would be happy to read anything)"

“It's statistically unlikely that everyone in that room hates you,” Stan muttered himself, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Still a possibility though,” he added, biting his lip. “Anything is possible.” 

He took a deep breath, chest rising and expanding with purpose, purpose he frankly didn't have. He opened the door with his eyes shut. He walked forward, eyes still closed. 

“Welcome to AA,” a man, who sounded friendly enough, said. “Take a seat, we were just starting.” 

He nodded, his head bobbing up and down as if it were on a spring. He didn't say thank you. He should have said thank you.

“Who wants to read?” A man, the same man asked. Was this a situation where if no one volunteered, it'd go to lottery? Stan eyed the door as he sat on a cheap plastic lawn chair, the kind that go fifty percent off right before the first snow of the season. It creaked under his weight. 

Stan stared at his shoes, zoning out for the duration of the meeting. No one asked him to speak, so he didn't. It'd gotten him this far in life, so he figured it was an okay strategy. 

But then again, it'd gotten him to here. Here, where he sat in the church basement with almost strangers. People he'd seen once or twice around town, a few he'd seen at the bar.

Wendy said she'd stop talking to him if he didn't go to AA. If he didn't make a conscious effort. 

Sitting here, seven days a week, was his effort to keep his last tie to the outside world. Wendy was the only person he had any sort of connection with. He couldn't afford to be alone. He didn't think he could bear it. 

Lord knows, he hadn't handled it well before. Silently, he laughed at himself. Here he was, at age thirty, ghosting in and out of AA each week to keep ties to a girl he hadn't dated since fifth grade. A relationship that fell apart because he put too much pressure on it. Because all his other friends decided they were better off without him. 

And they were, by most people's standards. 

Cartman worked as a bail bondsman, hunting down criminals on the lam. He ran local commercials, too. “Don't stay in jail sick, throw the stick.” It was a dumb slogan, but it was Eric's business, not his. He didn't have a business, so he didn’t get to say anything. 

He didn't say much anymore, anyways. 

Some woman rambled on about how AA was changing her life, but Stan didn't see her at meetings but twice a week. Maybe she went to North Park. If Stan had a car he'd go to North Park, or straight to the bottom of Stark’s Pond. It was hard to be certain. 

Wendy had a car, in fact, between her and Bebe, they had two cars. He could, in theory, ask for a ride to a different meeting, one where he didn't feel as if he was breathing water. But that'd mean he'd have to ask, and he already slept in their guest room; he didn't want to put them out more, lest he be put out.

Everyone around him was standing, milling about and chatting. No one said anything to him, not since his first week of meetings a couple of years ago. They realized he wasn't going to talk to them. There was a silent connection, an occasional head nod as he slipped two quarters in the box for some shitty coffee. 

They knew he was one of them, and that was enough.

He'd been sober the whole time, which was more than Wendy thought was possible. It's probably the only reason he was allowed to stay in her house, with her kids and her wife. He might be a sad sack of shit, but hell, he was sober. 

It might have meant more, if he still felt like a person. 

He hadn't felt like a person in a long time, though. Not since before Kyle left. Hell, a little before that. There was a tiny space in time, a few fleeting moments, where he was a miserable mess, but at least he was a miserable mess with friends. 

He'd put on his brave face, like an idiot, and pretended to make other friends. He masqueraded through junior high and high school as the dumb jock, floating from party to party, too blazed to realize none of those people were his friends. None of them would miss him if he stopped going to their parties. At best he was nice to have, and a minor inconvenience to be without. 

He thought about that while he nursed coffee from a styrofoam cup. He opened the doors to the church, stiffening in the cold. He walked down the sidewalk, both hands on his cup. 

Someone grabbed his shoulder, and it burned when it sloshed onto his fingers, then froze.

“Hey, man. Man, hey? Stan, nnn, you remember me right? Tweek? Tweek Tweak?” Stan turned around, cursing himself as more coffee dripped onto his fingers. 

“It's me, man.” Tweek said. Of course it was, Stan could hear himself groan. “They said,” he seemed unaffected by the outburst, “man, they said, nnn, you don't talk. Not ever.”

“That's dumb,” Stan said, wishing he could have thought of a cooler thing to say.

“Yeah, I thought it was too. Those rooms, nnn, they're always so stuffy. I don't like AA, but South Park doesn't have, ngh, they don't have NA, man. Not enough interest. I don't have the money, the gas money for North Park NA this week though.” He ran his mouth like he was still high. Was this just how Tweek was now? 

“My sponsor, who is such a dick, a fucking dick man, I hate him. Said I could go to AA instead, have them sign my, ngh, my parole paperwork. They did, but first the guy, ugh, that guy, man, he wanted to ask me twenty questions. Do I have a sponsor? Am I following my program? I worried I was gonna miss, ngh, miss talking with you, man.” 

Stan shrugged, and continued walking.

“I haven't, haven't talked to you since high school, at least, man, at least,” Tweek carded his fingers through his hair, pulling when he reached the ends. Stan wanted to pull his hands away, to make him stop, but he didn't. It wasn't his business. If Tweek wanted to pull out all his hair, that was his call.

“So what have you been up to?” He asked, stowing his hands in his pockets. Stan took a drink of coffee, an excuse to not speak. He just shrugged his shoulders and continued walking towards Wendy's house. 

“Me? I've been around. In and out of jail. It's real hard to get housing, you know, man? Like real tough, so, nnn, I've been sleeping in my car, but I'm outta cash, so I was hoping,” he paused rushing in front of Stan so he could make eye contact. Here it was, here was the whole reason Tweek had bothered to even talk to him. “I was hoping, that I could use your shower and maybe do a load of laundry. I ain't got much, but I don't got, nnn, got the funds for the laundromat either.” 

“It's Wendy's house and her washer,” he shrugged again. “Ask her.” He didn't mention her propensity for taking in strays. 

She'd passed the bar, and taken a bottom of the pay barrel job as a public defender. It was her calling, she said. Stan privately thought her calling was to try to save people, but he didn't say that out loud. Not to the woman who let him sleep in her guest room. 

“Thanks, thanks man, I mean it. I really mean it. Not everyone, ngh, not everyone is so nice to me, anymore,” he ran a sleeve under his nose, “not everyone likes addicts, man. You know that.” 

Stan thought not everyone liked him, not so much addicts, but if hiding behind the guise of addiction is how Tweek handled his awful personality, then he was happy enough it worked for him. He didn't respond to Tweek. But he didn't tell him he couldn't follow him at eight o'clock on a Wednesday night, either.

Guess that meant he was willing to talk, at least to Tweek. 

“It sucks man, it really sucks. A lot of junkies won't even, ngh, they won't even take me seriously, they think I'm giving a fake name, man. But you know, you know my name is real. I'm just Tweek, it's my name. I thought about, nnnn, changing it, but what would I change it to? Do you have a name you think would suit me? Help me out, if, if you do.” 

Stan didn't say anything. Just unlocked to front door as he poured the coffee into the bushes. He crushed the styrofoam cup in his hand, then walked to the kitchen to throw it away.

Tweek didn't follow. He just stood outside, dumb struck.

“No one invited me in,” he rocked on his feet, hands deep in his pockets as he stood on the other side of the doorway. “You can’t just come inside without an invite. That’s, man, that’s bad manners. Like, fuck, I don’t want Wendy to think, ngh, that I’m an asshole.” 

Stan noted that he didn’t care if he thought he was an asshole, which he sort of did. Tweek left with the rest of them. Fair weather friends, the whole lot. 

“Come inside,” he said against his better judgement. His good judgement, the smidgeon that he had, said to slam the door in Tweek's face and call the cops. 

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it. Can you show me where you're shower is? Is it alright if I use your shower stuff? I don't have any soap. Man, if I had a dollar, nnn, for every time I forgot soap, I'd be rich. Rich, man. Filthy rich.” 

Stan pointed down the hallway, and followed that action with a shrug. Wendy and her family must still be out eating fancy Italian food he couldn't afford working in the garden department at Wal-Mart. His oh so gracious capitalist overlords paid him nine dollars an hour and gave him thirty hours, sporadic through the week. And he gave Wendy five hundred for the room, and for things like showers.

She pretend to be happy to have a renter, saying it helped balanced her budget. Stan knew, deep down, that Wendy would rather have the room for another kid. Her four year old had began asking for a little sister, and Wendy smiled, with her whole face, every time her daughter asked.

“Thanks, man, I really appreciate it.” It was Tweek's voice, and when Stan turned to see him, he was clad only in a towel slung low around his waist. A trail of dark blonde hair led to something, and oh my God, Stan swallowed though his mouth was dry.

He was hard. He was so obviously erect that Stan didn't know what to say, so he just stared. He'd dated a bit in college, before he dropped out; he'd only gone for the parties anyway. But they didn't look like Tweek. They weren't sunkissed twinks with body hair only in the right places. 

They also didn't have track marks. Not that he remembered.

“We can fuck,” he said, a smile spreading across his face. “I top, and I have a condom in my wallet, man. I don't remember soap, but I remember the important stuff, right?” He laughed, letting the towel drop to the floor. 

Was this is plan? Come into the house and ask Stan for sex? There were at least ten gay men in a ten mile radius, as he knew from Tinder, and they were all more attractive than him. They seemed the type to preen over their appearance. Carefully staged photographs, not sloppy selfies, like Stan. He'd taken his hastily in the bathroom mirror, toilet in view. An honest representation of what they'd get.

No one had matched him, anyways.

“Wanna go to your room?” Tweek asked, eyes shifting around the house. “Unless you're the type that likes to be bent over the kitchen counter. That could be, nnn, fun.” 

“No,” he said, racing past him, towards his room. If he was going to have sex for the first time in years, it was going to be in a bed, like a decent God fearing individual.

Even if he wasn't married and it was gay sex with an junkie. There were standards.

“Got any lotion?” Tweek asked, making a beeline for the bed. The towel had been left on the kitchen floor, and his dick wiggled as he walked. Stan wanted to laugh. He didn't though, he just grabbed the lotion from the bedside table and threw it to him.

It bounced out of Tweek's hands and fell on the floor with a clunk, the pump breaking and spewing lotion onto the floor. 

This time, Stan did laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

“What the hell is happening?” He asked, through manic laughter.

“We're gonna, ngh,” he twitched, face folding in on itself as he tried to scoop up lotion from the carpet, “fuck. Tell me you've fucked before.”

“Yeah, of course I have.” At least three times. Only one of them with Eric Cartman, he shuddered.

“Then you'd know you'd have to take your clothes off.” Tweek was smiling, his eyes mischievous.

“No foreplay?” He snorted, fingertips grazing the hem of his shirt.

“Wendy didn't ask me for- shit!” And Tweek’s smile was gone. His face was blank, then his eyebrows furrowed.

“What did you just say?” Stan let his shirt go, turning his hands into fists.

“Nothing, let's just fuck, okay, man. Honest, I'd fuck you anyways.” Tweek walked towards him, a glob of lotion on his fingertips.

“Wendy put you up to this?” Stan asked, scooting down the bed, away from him.

“Nah, it's not quite, man, it's complicated. It was my idea. Get you laid was my idea.” Tweek sighed, sitting down on the bed, thigh touching Stan.

“I changed my mind, I don't, I can't,” Stan's mouth was dry and he couldn't find the words. 

“It might make you feel better, man,” Tweek tried to reason, clean hand patting Stan on the knee. 

“I'm not in the mood,” Stan huffed, turning away from Tweek. 

“Well, fine, do you want to watch a movie, or play some cards? You seem, nnn, lonely.” Stan bristled at the statement, suddenly pulling out of his near constant slouch.

“I'm not lonely. I'm just a loner. It's different.” 

“Wellm give me a change of clothes and you can be a loner while we watch TV,” Tweek shrugged, as if it didn't bother him that his prospects of sex had been dashed. 

“I’ve had sex before,” Stan said, suddenly feeling inadequate. Tweek was still hard, and his dick was nice. The right thickness and length, not too thick, not too long. Not scary. “At least a half dozen times,” he lied, inflating the number. 

“I believe you,” Tweek said, still sitting next to him. Still stark naked. “If I’m not your type then I’m not your type.” 

“No, it’s not, I mean, you’re,” Stan ended his statement with a sigh, head hanging so low that his chin touched his chest. “It’s complicated.” 

“Everything is, man. Everything is.” 

And then, like the flipping of a switch, Stan realized the opportunity set in front of him, even if it was from Wendy. Most things in life he had because of Wendy. Now was not the time to start refusing gifts. 

He scooted closer, their legs pressed against each other, and turned sideways and kissed Tweek, despite not being a terribly good kisser. 

Tweek was though. Tweek leaned into the kiss, taking control of the situation and letting Stan take the backseat. In short order, Tweek had taken Stan’s shirt off. He pinched his nipples, twisting ever so slightly. 

Stan felt his mouth go dry after he yelped. 

Tweek laughed, throwing the shirt across the room. It landed in the pile of laundry across the room. 

“Want a blowie?” Stan’s face contorted at the slang, as he tried to figure out what he was being asked. “I mean a blow job. Do you want, ngh, your dick sucked, man?” 

He nodded, face flushed, as Tweek unzipped Stan’s pants. He wiggled his dick free from his boxers, not bothering to remove the clothes all the way. Tweek sank down, smiling at Stan, and slowly swallowed his length. 

It felt nice in a way Stan did not remember it feeling in college. Eric hadn’t bothered to suck him off, saying it was too personal. But here was Tweek, someone he hadn’t seen in years, putting such an intimate body part in his mouth. 

Something about the way Tweek looked at him while he did it, like he was hungry, like he was going to devour Stan, sent him over the edge. He didn’t stutter out a warning, he just came. Tweek simply swallowed, and came off of his dick with a pop. 

Stan pushed the pillow into his face with his arms. He hadn’t even had the control to make it through a two minute blow job, a warm up for sex.

“You don’t have to be, nnn, embarrassed, man. It happens to the best of us.” Stan was fairly certain that wasn’t true, as they rearranged on his bed to both be laying down.

“You mind if I stay the night?” Tweek asked with a yawn. His body was pressed in between Stan and the wall on the twin sized mattress. 

Stan didn’t say anything. He took of his pants, kicking the off the bed, and pressed into Tweek’s back. Tweek didn’t say he liked it, but he didn’t tell Stan no. Tweek’s breath was coming out in little pants and the bed was shaking. 

Stan fell asleep to the steady rhythm of the headboard hitting the wall.


End file.
